


...a Psycho

by baldersgratetoo



Series: Derek is... [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Animal Death, Asphyxiation, Blood, Blood and Gore, Castration, Character Death, Chastity Device, Dark Derek Hale, Defacation, Disembowelment, Genital Torture, Gore, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Gun Wielding Stiles Stilinski, Hanging, Harm to Animals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Painful Sex, Psychopath Derek Hale, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Serial Killer Derek Hale, Serial Killers, Somnophilia, Strangulation, Torture, Trauma, Unsafe Sex, Urination, Violence, Voiding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baldersgratetoo/pseuds/baldersgratetoo
Summary: Makes more sense in the context of the series but a collection of one-shots where Derek is, or becomes, a psychopathic killer. Fuller description of the series along with the list of contents can be found in chapter 1; the stories begin at chapter 2.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Derek is... [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757656
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. Contents

Derek is…

A collection of one-shots focussing on the various states of Derek Hale. Each story/work will have a theme and each chapter will be a stand alone story based on that theme. Tags will apply to the chapter as a whole but specific content warnings will appear in the introduction for each chapter and the first chapter will always be a table of contents with individual chapter ratings and summary.

Most of them will be short and either plot bunnies for potentially longer or more involved works, or writing challenges like strict 30 minutes, here’s your prompt…go! As such concrit is especially welcome. If you aren’t sure what the difference between, ‘well that was shit,’ and, ‘you seem to use a lot of repeated pronouns; here’s a technique I’ve found useful for varying sentence structure to avoid this…,’ then hey, at least my comment count’s gone up!

Feel free to leave any effusive praise and gratitude or more importantly requests or prompts in the comments or find me on twitter @bgiific and if I’m feeling it I’ll write it. Unless it really doesn’t fit, whatever you request will be a chapter themed to the work you request it in. Feel free to suggest a new work title if you want me to take him down a new rabbit hole!

Last but not least there will be a lot of variety here and as I add more there’s more chance I’ll miss things. It’s not deliberate; if you notice something that you think needs a warning or should be tagged please let me know. As a work might start with a fluffy suitable for all piece then segue straight into a very explicit one I’m erring on the side of caution and marking everything as such from the start.

tl:dr please enjoy but mind the tags!

* * *

Chapter 1 - > Contents

[Chapter 2 - > You Break It, You Bought It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473797/chapters/59068291) [Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski] [Graphic Descriptions of Torture & Murder/Non-consensual somnophilia & drug use]

[Chapter 3 - > Ask me, how.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473797/chapters/59289673) [Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski] [Graphic Descriptions of Hanging & Murder/Suggested animal cruelty/Drug Use/Consensual somnophilia]


	2. You Break It, You Bought It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek doesn't take well to his things getting damaged, so when a boorish lout knocks Stiles hard enough to bruise him, and marks up the gift Stiles bought for him, he can't let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a serial killer Derek fic where the killing is graphically portrayed, Derek considers Stiles to be his property, and mentions other unsavoury things about his character, such as his willingness to drug and rape his boyfriend, and murder his family. Proceed with caution.

Picking his teeth, Derek watched from his perch on the plastic-covered crate. Dislodging whatever piece of flesh had been stuck he wiped the knife clean on his shirt and smiled. It was a lovely powder blue that Stiles had bought him for his last birthday. Then he looked back up and growled. Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room was the worthless sack of shit that had barge past Derek's Stiles, called him a horrific name, and managed to smear engine grease on his precious shirt. Looking at Derek's things in the wrong way was dangerous. This subhuman cancer had soiled them and made his most prized possession cry at the damage. No one made Stiles cry.

Consoling Stiles had been so hard. Derek had had to promise to get the shirt cleaned, make it look good as new. Told Stiles how pretty how was, how lucky Derek was to have him. Hard and rough he'd fucked into his cunt, telling him how good he was while his raw dry dick tore and bruised and stiles sobbed in pleasure and pain and begged for his cum. Derek marked him over and over that night. Then, sated, slipped stiles his sleeping draught and departed.

The shirt was easy enough, expensive but replaceable, unique only because of who chose it for him. Donnie Travers was harder to find. Unfortunately for him, Derek had been protecting Stiles' interests since the boy moved to Beacon Hills after his mother died. He was careful, didn't try anything too soon. The one possessing Stiles eventually would be him. Luckily for Derek, Donnie was close enough to be convenient, far enough away not to arouse undue attention. Sometimes he waits years, but this demanded swift, painful retribution.

His uncle had taught him all the skills he had. Too well, in fact. Derek had allowed Kate Argent to seduce him when he'd identified her as the nut going around and putting down supposed werewolves. He watched for a while, she was crude but effective; unfortunately, she'd fixated on the then Deputy Stilinski. Whether the man lived or died, Derek couldn't care less, but she'd used fire before, and he couldn't risk his prize. It was easy to steer her delusions to his own family. Let her plot and plan, lay the groundwork for the evidence trail that would lead back to her. He was disappointed he had to make it look like an animal. She would have been fun to take the knife to.

In the end, his blood were pawns in a grander plan. Sacrificed to remove a threat and a rival. It was the first time he'd become aroused by fire.

'Donnie, you little prick,' he said, slapping the man hard across the mouth.

'Please, please, let me go,' cams the pathetic sobbed reply. Derek rolled his eyes. There was never any imagination. He'd be begging for the worst tortured if he ever found himself in this position.

'You were not very polite yesterday. Now you must be punished.' The crying intensified at the sight of the knife. For now, Derek contented himself with cutting away his victim's clothing to be burned later. 'Now Donnie, stop blubbering. You can push through the minimart covered in grease and filth rubbing it on everyone you knock into like a real mad, so take this like a real man. You won't leave here alive. The only questing is how painless it will be'

Pitiful sobbing intensified and the acrid scent of sweat, the kind only genuine bone-chilling terror could provide. The scream that ripped through when he plunged the knife into the meat of his toy's plump saggy ass brought the first real smile to Derek's lips since he'd fucked himself on Stiles' unconscious cock a week earlier. He'd filmed it in case he ever wanted Stiles to know.

'Hold that for me, will you?' Stepping back, Derek slowly stripped off his shirt and folding it gently to place on the ground. As he removed his boots, socks, and jeans, he pondered what exactly his revenge would entail. His speciality was well practised, slow, immensely painful, and would leave Donnie begging for death. The question was whether he was worthy of the artistry. Except for the shirt, that was an integral part of this lesson, he tossed his other clothes on the pile to go to the furnace later.

Without fail this bizarre change would occur with his male victims. They would sob and beg and whimper. As soon as his clothes came off, they turned to a silent unadulterated look of terror. It was as though anything that could possibly imply would be worse than the already promised horrible death.

'Don't worry,' he cooed, taking a sharp grip on Donnie's thinning greasy hair and forcing him to look down. 'It's all locked up. Not that I'd put it anywhere near your filthy asshole anyway. I don't know where you've been, but it smells like a garbage dump.'

Derek had always had trouble staying soft when he was working. He didn't enjoy the distraction of an overly large heavy cock bobbing about. It stuck straight out while performing delicate cuts, rubbing against blood sticky thighs or getting caught on flaps of skin. Instead, he packed it away in the smallest steel prison he could squeeze it into. Revelled in the pain of trying to get hard, feeding his brutalism in a feedback loop of dopamine, serotonin, and the spray of arterial blood. A big dick was good for making his Stiles sob and moan; the rest of the time it was just in the way.

Slowly he pulled his knife from its fleshy holster and inches from Donnie's face licked the blade. 'You taste like inbreeding and disappointment. Did your mother hate you?' As he trailed the knife down the dirty pale skin of the bared throat, his belly began to heat, and the sound of splashing as the liquid hit the plastic-covered floor. The acrid smell of strong piss filled the air, making Derek's heartbeat pick up slightly. It never went above eighty, but he'd learned to appreciate the level of fear needed in his victims for this to happen before they were physically incapable of holding it. It was why he always stripped beforehand, the feel of all the fluids coating his skin electrified him and inspired his best works.

Diligently he began to press and prod, feeling for bone, the depth of muscle below the fat. Slowly, very slowly, he sank the razor-sharp blade into flesh, penetrating just below his victim's breastbone. The screaming began in earnest, broken by choked sobs and attempts to wriggle free. Derek pressed himself close and took a firm grip on a fleshy hip, it wouldn't do to let the knife slip too deep and end his fun too soon. His left hand continued is journey slowly down, leaving behind it an oozing canyon of pale yellow fat bottoming out in pink muscle.

This was his favourite thing. Flaying his victim entirely was transcendent and time-consuming. Donnie deserved pain, not an end as an artful masterpiece. Instead, the plan was for a quick filleting and slow, agonising death. Once the knife hit the navel, it turned to open a trench to the jut of the hip bone, then back to the centre to repeat on the other side.

Stepping back, Derek took a moment to compose himself. Not to mention, admire his handy work. So little tissue holding everything in place. Donnie had passed out, but the next stage was delicate and difficult to do correctly so it would help for him to be still while he was prepared. Once he was awake, Derek would seal his fate. At that point, even if they were discovered and paramedics on hand, no one could save him.

Returning to his supplies, Derek took out a strip of material and length of thin rope. The cloth had a long heavily stitched hole in the middle that was lined up with the vertical gash in the belly. Behind Donnie, Derek began to lace the rope through the riveted eyelets on either edge of the material, slowly pulling it together like a corset. They were Derek's own creation, specially made for this task; an incredible time saver and untraceable. He could do this without such a specialised tool. It was much more difficult when operating on a hanging target, free to swing and jerk. It was far less impressive when they were laying down without the beautiful effects of gravity at play on the event.

Tightly wrapped, Donnie was awoken with a painful punch to the testicles, enough to reach him through the agony of his split open front. 'Hi, Donnie,' Derek's said, toothy grin in place. 'I'm sure you've realised by now that this isn't going to turn out well for you, but I'm not sure you know why. Do you know why?'

The spluttered begging was irritating, but something Derek had come to expect at this stage in his questioning. 'Don't worry, I'll tell you. And then I'll tell you what I'm going to do to you as your punishment. At the gas station yesterday, you pushed past me and got grease on my shirt.' Picking the garment in question up off the floor, he held it up so Donnie could see; now not just soiled with grease, but with piss and blood. 'It was ruined. My Stiles gave it to me as a gift. And you've ruined it. Worse though, you knocked into Stiles when you pushed past him. He has a bruise on his arm where he hit the handle of the refrigerator. You damaged two things that belong to me. Two of my most prized possessions.' He usually stayed calm, but this tried him more than usual, his pulse was racing almost hitting ninety, and he ended screaming. 'I didn't burn my entire family alive so that inbred pieces of human excrement like you could damage what's mine!'

Taking a calming breath he went back to grinning and said softly, 'I'm going to slice through the muscle that's holding you together and disembowel you. It will be the most excruciating pain you've ever experienced. You'll probably pass out a few times, but it should take you at least three hours to die.'

There were tears and snot, but no words. There were never any words by this point. It was always a disappointment. A flick of the wrist sent the knife from right to left, opening the extended cut and breaking through the last strands of muscle. With more care, Derek put the blade to Donnie's navel. He slowly dragged it up, leaving a sliver of tissue beginning to strain under pressure. He planted the knife in the in undamaged ass cheek and went back to his supplies; the last thing he'd need.

'Are you ready to die slowly, Donnie?' A little head shake and more weak sobbing were all he received in answer. 'No? Well, that's too bad, because I'm ready to kill you.' With that, he hooked the blade of the garden shears under the stitches holding the corset contraption together. One at the top and one at the bottom. 'Goodbye, Donnie.'

He squeezed. The material sheared apart, like a soda can left too long in the freezer. A split second later the inevitable happened, a spray of internal organs hitting Derek square in the chest before falling to the floor. Fort after foot of intestine falling out being until it was just hanging from the gaping hole, bloody and beautiful.

Donnie had gone into shock, convulsing and Derek went back to his crate, to watch and feel the blood drying on his skin, making him itch. For hours he would watch the cycle of agony and silence. When Donnie was still lucid and close to death, it would be time to emasculate him, feed him his pitiful manhood, then cut him down. Whether he was dead when he went into the furnace was immaterial at this point.

Everything would be wrapped up and burned. The unassuming concrete room would be so rested with chlorine bleach. Derek would smith some dark, twisted iron monstrosity as his trophy; it was safer than keeping something, and he could display them openly. Oddly, customers instinctively gave them a wide berth, never had he been asked to provide a price. Not that he would. Stiles, though. Stiles would come into his studio and gravitate towards them, touch and caress the twisted metal, gush over every new one that appeared.

When he went home, he'd push Stiles into the wall, devouring his mouth. He'd throw him on the bed and eat the tight pink hole that was his and had only ever been his until Stiles was sobbing with need. Then, he'd fill him, fuck him with no mercy and mark his claim, make Stiles scream that he was Derek's.

If he was lucky, Stiles wouldn't cum. Would get his breath back and lift Derek's leg on his shoulders. Sinking into him, Stiles would tell Derek that he was his as well. Pounding until Derek came untouched, staring into the same empty darkness that his own eyes held when he looked in the mirror.


	3. Ask me, how.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles asks 'how high?' and Derek jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested animal cruelty and consumption or non standard 'food' species. Murder. Quite graphic description of hanging.
> 
> Prompted by TheSchimmer; I focussed on the 'how' part and the rest ran away from me, so I'll be making a second attempt to address the whole of it, not just my tunnel vision part! Hope you enjoy it any way.
>
>> I saw this as sort of a prompt or something, cant remmeber if it was Instagram or twitter or whatever.  
> The one was Stiles is a writer and has random thoughts that he says out loud like "How long do you think it takes for a person to die from hanging?"  
> And Derek does exactly that, all of the queries his mate has about random things Derek goes out of his way to find out. Maybe just sort of cute, sort of murder husbands?

'How many press-ups can a werewolf do?' That absent-minded question thrown out as Stiles' mind did mental gymnastics after being worn out by a ravishing werewolf would eventually lead to a beautiful fucked up place for the two of them. The next evening he arrived to find Derek performing pushups and counting out loud. Already at eight hundred and thirty, Stiles decided to take a seat and watch the show; falling asleep somewhere after two thousand. It turns out with just bodyweight they can go on indefinitely as when Stiles awoke the count was up to ten thousand and something. At least they could; apparently, demands for coffee were sufficient to break the experiment.

While that had been a surreal experience, it was the next time he asked 'how', that he darker appetites were awoken. The question itself had been innocent, but understanding the consequences of having it answered left that innocence behind. 'How does dog meat taste?' A couple of days later Derek had cooked him dinner. Juicy, succulent steak, oddly chewy and gamier than beef. 'Venison he asked?' Derek just smiled and shook his head. 'It's rarer than I usually like, but for some reason, I'm really excited about that.'

Blushing slightly Derek bowed his head, a happy smile on his lips. 'I thought about getting you to try it raw, but I didn't think that was what you meant when you asked how it tasted.'

Stiles stopped chewing mid-bite. Looking down at his plate, only a couple of mouthfuls or the meat left. His eyes jumped up to look across the table, surprise on his face. Just as Derek's expression started to change from pride to worry, Stiles finished chewing and swallows on a moan. 'I didn't think you could buy dog meat in the US?'

'You can't,' came the cryptic reply. Derek's eyes gave him away, flicking over to the loft door. There were two large black refuse sacks.

'Next time I'd like to try raw,' Stiles said, still staring at the bags. 'I'd like to watch you prepare it as well.'

When there was no response after a few seconds, he turned back. Derek was looking at him with a mildly surprised but calculating look. Eventually, seeing whatever he was looking for, he murmured, 'okay. I'd like that.'

Stiles knew he shouldn't have gotten hard at that. Or jerked off imagining it while driving home. He also knew he didn't care.

After that, he tested the boundaries and found there didn't seem to be any. 'How much does it hurt to get shot in the stomach?' An invitation to join Derek in the train depot was intriguing. When he arrived, he found a shirtless boyfriend spinning the chamber of a .45. Checking that Stiles did, in fact, know how to use it and aim at a reasonably short distance, Derek stood against the concrete wall and pointed at where his stomach sat, just below his ribs. Excited, he wasted no time making his aim. It wasn't until Derek told him the gun was chosen for the amount of damage it could do that Stiles became 'excited'. If he aimed too high, werewolf healing might not kick in fast enough. Hole in his belly, Derek slid down the wall going into shock. As soon as he had healed just enough, he began to recount the feelings of excruciating agony. All the while, Stiles rubbed himself through his jeans, coming when the pitiful crying started.

'How long would it take for your hair to grow back if we waxed you from the neck down?' Turns out Derek likes having all his body hair pulled out and the sensation of bare skin, especially when Stiles asks, 'how do you feel about whips.' It also turns out that shifting entirely into wolf form resets the follicles, as the hair started growing back the next day. Luckily Stiles loves hirsute werewolves too.

'How easy is it to roofie someone?' Too easy, apparently. Stiles found it hilarious that the Sheriff was scratching his head over a sudden rash of spiking incidents with no apparent robbery or sexual assault involved. Derek said he'd managed at least thirty. 'How about making me a nice drink? How about making me guess all the nasty things you did when I regain consciousness?' Mostly he guessed right and spent the time they took to heal pressing and rubbing every bruise, cut, and swollen piece of flesh.

* * *

'How long do you think it takes for a person to die from hanging?' It slipped out of his mouth as he was riding Derek. Hips grinding down slowly, his hands squeezed at the well-muscled throat keeping him upright. He watched fascinated as Derek's mouth clicked, trying to draw in air. Even when his lips started turning blue, face purple, or eyes lolling back, Derek's hands never moved off the bed. Except to softly caress Stiles' behind to open him winder letting him sink deeper. The question was merely a curiosity. But, when eyes began to glow amber, claws digging into his flesh, and knot rapidly demanding entry, he realised the line he'd crossed. He came untouched as Derek passed out the same moment he locked into Stiles and began to flood him.

* * *

The warehouse was dark and apparently empty. Derek's voice came out of the dark, echoing, 'on the crate in the middle of the room, there's a stopwatch, pick it up and take a seat.' Doing as instructed, Stiles picked up the watch and jumped up onto the box, legs crossed beneath him. Oddly he didn't fidget when Derek took him on these educational field trips. 'Ready?' Stiles nodded, assuming he was being observed. 'Three.' Stiles' finger hovered over the start button. 'Two.' Focused where he believed the echoing voice was located, his free hand clenched. 'One.' The bleeping watch was mostly drowned out by the body thrown over the rail of a shadowed gangway twenty feet above. The man was average really, mid-thirties, stripped naked, hands zip-tied over his belly. The rope was swaying and spinning from the, less than vertical, drop. Derek jumped down, landing in a crouch, glowy eyes and toothy grin.

'Show off,' Stiles mumbled, grinning back. Turning his attention back to the show he watched as the spin and sway was arrested by Derek who then came to stand beside him, holding his free hand. The legs started to twitch then, and tears were running down a rapidly reddening face. Horrified eyes stared out at them, and Stiles realised they were sat under the only lit area, the moon shining through a mucky skylight above. He had asked 'how', and Derek ensured he had to get an answer. The man was a bank clerk, Stiles realised, who knew who was doing this to him.

Their victim's eyes rolled back into unconsciousness faster than Stiles realised, only twelve seconds after the drop but it had felt like hours. Legs spasmed, eventually drawing up like a macabre mime of a squat. The arms tried to pull apart, tugging against the plastic ties which would no give way. Shortly after as limbs twitched, the hanged man lost control of his bladder, a few minutes more his bowels. The smell that wafted over was atrocious, but Derek seemed to be licking his lips in appreciation.

'Fifteen minutes Der, is he dead? I don't know whether to stop the watch.'

'You tell me,' came the cryptic reply as Derek moved in between Stiles now hanging legs.

Confused, and very frustrated, he sighed, 'how can I tell if my first hanging victim is dead?'

Derek grinned. 'Very specific, well done.' His face slipped into his, 'fond but still dealing with Stiles look', and he pointed pointedly to his eyes, still glowing.

'Huh?' Then, 'oh! Oooh.' Patiently he waited, then he saw it, bleeding in from the edges moving towards the centre and destroying a second innocence. Wolf-eyes glowed deep blue, icier that Peter's ever managed to be and the beep of the stopwatch sounded. 'Beautiful,' Stiles said, one eye on Derek's bright orbs, the other focused over his shoulder.

'Did you get your answer?'

'Hmm? Oh,' he said, remembering the purpose of this evenings experiment. 'Sixteen thirty-eight. He didn't seem to suffer very much, did he?'

'Mmm,' the only reply as Derek nuzzled into his neck.

'How do you feel about marrying me?'

'So we can cause chaos? How could I possibly say no?'

'I'll take that as an enthusiastic yes. Is there anything you wouldn't do if I say, "how"?'

'Do you want to know a secret, Stiles?'

'Yes.'

'Kate asked me, "how do you think it would feel to burn someone alive?" I hope you never use your power for anything other than your deepest darkest desires.'

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated but don't feel obligated! :)
> 
> I'm also on twitter @bgiific


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